Kittens! Kittens! Kittens! Rah! Rah! Rah!

So I got some new kittens. Well, they are ostensibly for the entire family, but let's be honest here. They are MINE.  This post serves no purpose whatsoever except to show you cute pictures of my kittens. I make no apologies for the content, or lack thereof. Percy and Precious are content enough.

Precious. Longest, whitest eyebrows I've ever seen on a kitty.

Precious. Licking the remnants of supper from her little kitten lips.

Precious. Wondering what I'm doing. A bit perplexed I think. 

Percy. Obviously not as talented in the eating area as his sister is. Still adorable.

Precious. Enjoying GG1's multi-colored skirt as a fashionable backdrop.

Precious and Percy. In a word, adorable. Also uncooperative. Note GG1's death grip on their tiny kitten necks.

Precious, delicately licking the teeniest of paw paws with her widdle tongue. 

Checking to make sure I'm still looking to notice how cute she is.

Why are there not more pictures of Percy? Welllll, he is, shall we say, a bit more rambunctious than his sister. But don't worry, there will be plenty more kitten pictures to come in the next few months. If you hate cats, check back in November. Maybe I'll have changed photo subjects by then.

Ouch! Dat hurt!

In my vast experience as a mother, ten whole years, I have observed four different methods of dealing with an injured child. I have watched other moms in public places and taken mental notes, but I also have extensive field practice. I will now describe these methods to you for your own edification. However, instead of using scenarios that I have witnessed with other moms and their kids, I will use my own personal experiences because it would be tacky to say, "And then this one time, I saw this mom at WalMart" or "Man, you should have seen this mom at the pool." Instead I will tell you about my own tacky ways of dealing with my kids when they are injured, or how my parents dealt with me. Please note: I do not relish injuries. I do not want my kids to get hurt. However, they manage to injure themselves every single day and sometimes it is just super funny. Obviously, none of these methods are appropriate when dealing with a seriously injured child, unless you were like me and GH when Tiny broke her leg, but hey, we can't all be perfect parents. For the record, we ignored her insistence that her leg was broken until the next day. We were wrong.

Method #1: ignore the injured child

Method #2: overreact to the injured child

Method #3: anger towards the injured child

Method #4: disbelief about the injury

In an ideal world, we would, of course, all react with a fifth method, which is calm and loving nurturing of the injured child. But let's face it, this world is not ideal and I am not an ideal mother. I'm just a mom of four kids, four very clumsy kids, and I have to take the injuries as they come.

Method #1: ignore the injured child
So there I was at the park, big pregnant with Tiny, hanging out with other moms and ignoring my kids. This is typically what I do at the park. When my kids come close to me, I shoo them away. I did not dress them, pack a snack, and drive them clear across town for them to hang all over me. Go play! This is my constant refrain while at the park.

On this particular park day, MOS was way down the hill, playing near the wooden train, and he started wailing. I looked up, shielding my eyes from the glare, and saw him stalking his way through the weeds, hollerin' fit to beat the band. I laughed and said to one of my friends, "Why do they do that? Get hurt and then come all the way across the playground to whine to me about it?" My friend laughed a bit, but then she looked concerned. "I don't know. He's crying really hard. Maybe he's actually hurt?" I shrugged my shoulders. If he could still scream that loud it probably wasn't that bad. I continued to ignore him as he came closer, his wailing only increasing in volume and intensity the closer he got to me. I was starting to get a headache. Finally, the blessed child stopped in front of me and stuck his arms up, still screeching. I hardly looked at him when I bent over to pick him up. I held him up high, up above my giant pregnant belly, and was quite shocked when my friend started whopping me on the breasts. "Ahhhh!" I might have yelled a bit, too. Because MOS's little fat hands were absolutely covered with ants. And when I picked him up, the ants leapt from his hands and went down my bra. I dropped MOS and began to dig frantically down my shirt as those little evil fire ants gnawed away at my vast expanse of skin. My friends started brushing the ants off MOS's hands, but he was eaten up with ant bites. I was, too. Cue guilt feelings as I watched his hands swell and become covered with pustules that he would not let me pop, no matter how hard I begged.

Results of Method #1: very pleasant and easy to do until it is something serious that hurts me, too. Still my preferred method of dealing with an injured child.

Method #2: overreacting to the injured child
I used to utilize this method with alarming frequency when I only had one child. I didn't know any better and thought that children were delicate and needed to be watched at all times. One of my worst incidents of overreacting was when GG1 was about nine months old. She had pulled a colander out of the cupboard and was sitting in it. She was very little at nine months and easily tucked right into it. GH and I thought she was so cute that we were going to take her picture. And then, of course, she fell out of the colander, backwards into the cabinet door. We both overreacted, rushing to scoop her up. I honestly think we both held her as we examined our precious angelic little dollop of baby who had hurt her widdle head. GG1, who had obviously not been overly hurt, was fine until we started making big over her. As GH and I discussed, heatedly, rather she had a fractured skull or not, GG1's wailing reached epic heights. All three of us quickly dissolved into hysteria which only abated after I called the after hours clinic at our pediatrician's office. I was clutching the screaming baby, GH was talking over me into the phone, and I was tearfully describing the accident to the nurse. Fortunately, it was not her first rodeo, and she reassured me that if GG1 was fine. I kept repeating over and over, "She fell out of a colander! Into the cabinet! A colander, I tell you!" The nurse told me to ice her head and as long as the place where she hit was swelling out and not dented in, she was fine. After fifteen minutes of trying to wrestle GG1 to the ground so that we could ice her head, we gave up and off she toddled, presumably grateful that our ministrations were over. GH and I were exhausted. GG1 stayed up until midnight, energized from her crying bout, and oblivious to the goose egg on the back of her head.

Results of Method #2: disastrous. I neither recommend this method, nor continue to apply it to my injured children. See Method #1 for suitable alternative.

Method #3: Anger towards the injured child
Ah, blowing up at your kid for hurting himself: the favored method of dealing with an injured child for Baby Boomers like my parents. When I was a kid, back in the '80s, there I would be, happily running on the driveway, and my father would holler, "Quit running! You're gonna fall and hurt yourself!" Well, I would of course keep on keepin' on because I was a kid and the slap-slap-slap of my mauve velcro Kangaroo shoes was very pleasing to my ears. Inevitably, I would trip and fall flat out on the pavement, skinning a knee or elbow or hand or all three. My father would then yell, "I told you, dammit! I told you were gonna fall! Quit running! Be careful!" Too late for that, Daddy. Or I would be blissfully jumping on my bed, enjoying the springs that rocketed me up towards my ceiling fan, away from the floor littered with toys, oblivious to danger that awaited me above or below. My mother would walk by my room with a laundry basket in her hands and say (she wasn't a yeller like my father), "Sweetie, what has Mommy told you about jumping on your bed? If you do it again you will fall off and crack your head open on the toys that you refuse to pick up and then we will have to go to the hospital." My mom started off nice and then when I either got my head or arm hung up in the ceiling fan or projected myself in a beautiful parabolic motion onto a pile of legos, she would turn on me. "What did I tell you? Hmmmmm? What did I tell you? Didn't I tell you this would happen? What did I tell you about jumping on this bed? I cannot BELIEVE you did this!" All of this was delivered to me in her best teacher voice, with her most disapproving teacher face, while she picked fan dust out of my hair and tried to stop the bleeding scalp wound I collected from my contact with the whirring fan. Sometimes I preferred my father's method: it didn't last as long because he would get fed up with my crying and go inside. My mother lectured her way through doctoring me up. It took forever.

Results of method #3: I super hated this method when I was a kid and I try to never use it on my kids. Sometimes I can't help it, like when I am standing RIGHT THERE saying not to do something and they do it anyway and get hurt. But we can't all be perfect.

Method #4: disbelief about the injury
Ah, disbelief, a favorite, yet usually incorrect, method of mine. Method #1 is still my favorite, but disbelief is a close second. I already mentioned when Tiny broke her leg and GH and I argued over whether it was broken and then we decided to wait and see if she was faking. Yeah, because three year olds are notorious for faking a broken leg. All four of my kids had at least one set of stitches by the time he or she was two. And every blessed time, except for when a dog tore up GG1's cheek and ear, I have not believed that the injury necessitated stitches. When GG2 was about two, or just before she turned two, she jumped off GG1's bed and landed chin first on the footboard of her bed. Awesome founts of blood, wailing, imprecations that she was not going to live...GH and I ignored all of this. We even got our neighbor, who was in nursing school at the time, to come over and try to glue the gaping chin wound with fat hanging out of it back together. We were unsuccessful after many applications of derma-bond, so I finally took her to the ER. When we were leaving the ER, at 2 AM, GG2 said, "Mama, was dat weally necessawy?" (GG2 was my only kid that talked early. The rest waited until age 3.) I bet I know how GG2 will handle her kids' injuries: skeptically.

Results of method #4: mixed. Sometimes, it really is best to not believe that your kid is hurt the worstest in da werld mama! Da worstest evah! Because with kids as active as mine, they are bound to fall out of a tree, off the swing set, get hung up on the fence as they try to climb it, or one regrettable time, fall on a pile of barbed wire (MOS, of course). But don't be like me and practice both wholesale ignoring and disbelieving an injury, or you will be the one at the football stadium in the 2nd quarter of an MC/Belhaven football game, distractedly wrapping a diaper around your son's head wound while you try to watch just a few more minutes of the game before taking him to the ER. Three staples that time: way to overachieve son.

I would write more but I hear screaming in the backyard. They could either be playing banshees or somebody, probably MOS, is injured. Wish me luck.

An Ode to my Bubbie

Mother's Only Son. I had no idea what I was getting into when he was born. Obviously I wouldn't change a thing yadda yadda yadda, but oh, this boy. This son of mine, this big-headed charming boy, is an incredibly difficult child to deal with. Mostly, I suspect, because he is a lot like his mama. He also needs me so fiercely that it hurts sometimes. Hurts both of us, actually. Here are a few pictures of him. Nothing special about these, just ones that seem to capture a bit of his large personality. Bubbie is what I call him when I actually want to strangle him. I know Bubbie is grandmother in Yiddish but it is a soft sounding name so I use it to calm myself down and think through what I should say to him instead of what I want to say. I call him Bubbie a lot.

A few weeks old, being clutched by his sisters, who adored him from birth until he was about two. Then nobody liked him again until he turned five.

About 18 months or so. MOS was a giant baby. 

About 4 months old and a happy round baby. He was actually my best baby; things just went south when he turned 17 months old, but they are looking up since he turned five. 

Right at two years; he was and is a good sleeper, which is one reason I let him stick around. 

Reeeeeaaaaaaching for Mama. Pick me up! Hold me! I NEED YOU MAMA!!!!! 

Eww. Ick. Gross. He doesn't eat like this anymore. Thank goodness. He looked like this after every meal, regardless of the food type. He could do this to himself with chicken nuggets and a cheese stick. Nightmarish. 

UHNNNNNN! Mama! Pick me up! Hold me! I NEED YOU! MOS didn't talk until he was two years old. His first word was ball. His second word was cracker. His third word was no. That was it until he was well over two, when he added in baby and Mama. He can say a bit more now. 

Fatty little man. He didn't walk until he was about 14 months old. This picture was taken before he could walk. He could crawl, however, and he crawled up to the top of the swingset for this pic. He was smirking because he knew it was making me nervous for him to be up so high, seeing as how he was fat and couldn't walk. 

My lame attempt to keep him in his room after Tiny was born. He broke multiple gates. And always had this expression on his face when I caught him.

Mama and MOS a few weeks before Tiny was born. Kill me now if I ever see those stupid pants or stupid shirt again.  

The first time he held Tiny. She's about an hour old in this pic. He held her very gently and kissed her. Today he hit her over the head with a lamp and called her butthead. 

I have always loved this picture of me and the kids. I think it encapsulates everything about the way I parent and run my house. Tiny was a month or so old, MOS was not yet two, GG2 just turned four, and GG1 was six. Two are naked, one is in pajamas when it is clearly not nighttime, they are eating pizza on the counter, and I am haggard and exhausted, clutching the baby with one arm. Life with four kids. Just go with it and live it and make sure to exercise so you can keep on drinking beer. That's my only advice for moms in general.

One time I was elated for five days.

And then I had to get off the ship. Here is the story, filled with highs (the cruise) and lows (coming home). Let us never speak of the pain of coming home again. I am already planning my next cruise.

Elation. For reals. One of the smaller ships in Carnival's line up. I still got lost everyday. Never could figure out how to get where I was going. There was usually a small child on the elevator who would point me in the right direction. I could never go on a super huge boat. I'd be lost forever.

The usual suspects (l. to r., top to bottom): Neaky (combo of her name and Sneaky, which she is), Mrs. Hard Hat (family friendly blog so I can't explain that one), Moi, and B-Dub.

Mine and B-Dub's room. Never looked this neat again, especially once we started in on the monkey heads. We'll get to that in a bit. 

Lido deck. Curly slide. Music, dance floor, two bars. Why am I not there right now?????

B-Dub looking gorgeous and contemplative. We had an ocean view from our room and man, was it a good one. 

Moi. Leaping for joy because I am having such an awesome time. 

Our towels folded like a bullfrog. We also had a bear, a dog, and something that looked disgusting which we immediately unfolded. (shudder) 

The adult comedy guy. Loved him. Also loved the Blue Moon beer. Which we bought by the bucket. 

Progreso, Mayan ruins, Yucatan peninsula. First of many, many iguanas seen and photographed by Moi. Amazing. 

Neaky and Moi climbing the Mayan ruins. Unlike in boring ol' America, riddled with lawsuits and fussy about monuments and such, in Mexico they don't care if you molest their ruins. We climbed everything. 

A friary in the center court of the ruins. Which, incidentally, were named Dzibluehtanociesnetb9alksdfbk3. Or something similar. This friary was considered a "late addition," since it was built in the "later time" of the 1500s. The rest was constructed between 900-1100. You know, way before Columbus even thought about finding a faster trade route to India.

The longest building in the ruins, with steps leading up both sides. It was so large I couldn't take a picture of it all with my iPhone. Back in the day, the entire courtyard in front of this building was covered in terracotta pavers. Must have been gorgeous. 

Standing on top of the long building, looking down a corridor at B-Dub posing. 

Mrs. Hard Hat and Neaky confer while I try to capture the grandeur of this place. 

Iguana #15. I spared you pictures of all the others. He was a big fella and not scared of me at all. I was probably eight feet away from him before he lumbered off. 

Ah, the cenote, or as I called it, the Iguana Grotto. A beautiful, underwater stream-fed pond, that people were swimming in. It was, in a word, perfection. I dipped my feet in and let the tiny fishies nibble on my toes like those crazy pedicures that are the fashion now. 

The fanciest part of the ruins: a long road leading up to the large temple. We didn't have time to walk all that way but we admired it from afar. We had to get back to the ship. There was still food we hadn't eaten.

And now on to Cozumel. This part of Mexico is called the Mexican Riviera. Not sure what a riviera is but I know that I loved it. First stop: awesome bar right where we disembarked. Deboated? Jumped ship? I dunno. We got off the boat and went immediately to this bar with bathtubs on the deck and a view of the Caribbean. 

If we were so inclined, the bartender told us that we could fill the bathtubs with seawater drawn from below the deck and slosh about while we drank our beers. I wanted to but we were slated to begin the Amazing Race Cozumel in an hour and I didn't want to squelch my way to the finish line.  

Neaky, Mrs. Hard Hat, and B-Dub consult the clues they gathered in the Museum of Cozumel while I take pictures of the genuine pirate ship moored in the bay. Oh, I had a beer while they solved the puzzles. I was thirsty. And I did nothing whatsoever to contribute to our team's second place win. I cheered a lot but I really drug the team down. They earned second place despite me.

Genuine pirate ship. Don't disillusion me. 

B-Dub and Moi prepare to snorkel over the genuine sunken ship out in the water, upon which was written the next clue on our way to the finish line. I simply paddled, astounded at the clearness of the water and the fact that I was snorkeling in Cozumel. B-Dub got all the letters and shouted them out to our teammates in the boat. Good job, B-Dub! Way to pick up the slack for Moi! 

More Cozumel awesomeness. B-Dub violated some international trade agreements by wading into this beautiful fountain in the center of the shopping district. We almost got busted by a cop. 

And then Neaky posed with this bizarre creature on the deck with the bathtubs. I had to get out of my bathtub to take their picture. I was a bit resentful.

We won second place in the Amazing Race Cozumel, beating out a team consisting of old ladies. We were super proud of ourselves. I didn't take any pictures of us at the final awards ceremony, since I was hungry and occupied with eating as much salsa as I could before we had to leave. I think some of the other girls took pictures of us receiving our medals. I wore mine to dinner that night. In fact, I'm wearing it now. 

Back on board, we did the Wobble and some other equally attractive dances. Note how well Neaky and B-Dub balance both their beers and their dance moves. Way to go! Mrs. Hard Hat declined to dance, claiming the need to "just watch y'all's purses." I think she was embarrassed that her dance skills were not as fly as ours. Or simply embarrassed to be seen with us. Not sure which one. There are no pictures of Moi dancing because, again, this is a family friendly blog. Don't want to upset the children.

My favorite spot on the ship. The adult's only deck, called Serenity, did indeed live up to its name. The Serenity deck is also where B-Dub and Moi began the journey towards purchasing enough monkey heads for our combined seven children to each have one. We were committed to this selfless act and we triumphed. Each child got a monkey head. 

What's a monkey head, you ask? Why, it's a carved coconut brimming over with the drink of the day, of course! Or a pina colada, or a beer, or whatever your precious little heart desired it to be filled with. Moi and B-Dub's hearts desired pina colada and boat drinks and something called a Sunburst. Cool and refreshing!

And look! We were triumphant! Even though we came in second place in the Amazing Race, we came in first place in monkey head consumption and acquisition.  Go us!

We have already started discussing our next cruise. I would be happy taking this exact same one again. The only thing I would change is I would be gone longer. Perhaps twelve days. No more of this five day business again. I am wholly invested in eating twice as much next time. And winning the Amazing Race! Probably I will have to cheat.